


can't take the fire (fall from grace)

by extasiswings



Series: enemies of time [3]
Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Free Garcia Flynn 2k17, Post-Finale, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 04:55:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9967796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extasiswings/pseuds/extasiswings
Summary: It becomes a habit.When they have a bad mission—or sometimes even when they have a good one—when Lucy needs to quiet the demons in her head, remind herself that she's still human and alive, when she needs to be vulnerable, she doesn't go to Rufus or Wyatt. She goes to Flynn.





	

It becomes a habit. 

When they have a bad mission—or sometimes even when they have a good one—when Lucy needs to quiet the demons in her head, remind herself that she's still human and alive, when she needs to be vulnerable, she doesn't go to Rufus or Wyatt. She goes to Flynn. 

(When she does she tries not to think about what it means that he never says no, that he always seems to know exactly what she needs, that sometimes—more than she cares to admit—the other reasons matter far less than the fact that she just wants him)

But even then, there’s a distance between them, a carefully drawn line that he won’t cross even though they get closer and closer every time. At first Lucy doesn't notice. It's not that obvious after all, especially considering how very distracting he can be, but after awhile it’s hard not to. 

(If she had to guess, she'd say it has something to do with his wife, respect to her memory, deference to the possibility that somewhere in time she's alive and well, that sometime they might still be able to save her. The twist of jealousy she feels at the thought is undercut by the guilt whispering that she has no right to it, no right to him considering that if it weren't for her and Agent Christopher, he might have his family back already)

If she were braver, she might ask him flat out. But there's the small matter of how she's actually falling for him, how she's been falling for him for longer than she would like to admit, and she's not in the mood to get her heart broken. Masochistic as it is, she would rather take what she can get. 

(It's not as though what she can get is bad. Not when what she can get is his mouth, his tongue, his fingers, making her shiver and moan and see stars, over and over and over again. That’s not bad at all)

So, she resolves not to ask for anything else. It makes sense not to—no reason to rock the boat when things between the four of them on the team aren’t always the most stable without any added tension. 

(As it turns out, the universe doesn’t particularly care what Lucy wants)

 

 

"No!" 

If there's one thing Lucy really does miss about her old life, it's the fact that previously she had not been acquainted with having guns pointed in her direction. Now, it's become an all too regular occurrence. 

This time however, she can't actually blame anyone but herself. Because technically Rittenhouse Goon #27 hadn't been pointing a gun at her. He had been aiming for Flynn, bloody and bruised as he is, and Lucy, well, she hadn't even thought before throwing herself in the middle. 

(Roswell, 1947, a flying disc designed to monitor nuclear tests crashes in a nearby ranch. That’s the part you can read about in the history books. No one mentions that Roswell was a major Rittenhouse compound and that the device actually contained blackmail material Rittenhouse collected to blackmail major political leaders. 

The plan was simple—Lucy and Flynn would break into the base and cause a distraction or several while Wyatt and Rufus would find the relevant pieces of the device and take them back to the Lifeboat. To be fair, it was going really well until the two of them were caught on their way back to the Lifeboat by Rittenhouse goons #22-26 who had landed several solid hits on Flynn before he’d regained the upper hand while the two of them had been resisting arrest. The next one just got lucky)

Goon #27’s jaw ticks in frustration. "Move, Miss Preston."

"No."

Behind her, Flynn hisses her name. There's a gun about six inches to the left of her foot, but he's just far enough away that the chances of getting shot before he reached it were much higher before Lucy put herself between them. 

"Do you think I won't shoot you?" the agent asks. 

Lucy steels herself, standing taller, and hopes her projected confidence distracts from the shift of her foot towards the gun. 

"I think you haven't yet," she replies. "And I think shooting me might get you in some trouble with your bosses even if it lets you kill Flynn, which is probably why you haven't. So yeah, I'm feeling pretty sure of myself."

There's a crash in the hallway that draws 27's attention for only a split second, but it gives Lucy the chance to kick the gun to Flynn. He fires twice, the goon falls, and then he grabs Lucy's arm and drags her out of the facility. 

They're silent as they make their way back to the Lifeboat, to Rufus and Wyatt, but Flynn never loosens his grip. 

(It reminds her of when she'd stopped him from killing John Rittenhouse, the same stiffness, the same focused, cold mask, but this time she doesn't mind being hauled off without warning. They're on the same side after all. And she knows he would never actually hurt her)

The Lifeboat thankfully isn't far, so the silent treatment Flynn seems to be subjecting her to isn't prolonged. 

"Flynn..." Lucy stops at the edge of the clearing where they're parked, Wyatt and Rufus visible in the distance. She isn't sure what to say, but the fact that he won't look at her hurts more than she would like. 

Breaking the silence seems to flip some kind of switch, because Flynn looks over, eyes hard, and in the next moment he crushes his mouth to hers. Lucy makes a sound, startled as she is by the abrupt shift, but doesn’t hesitate to fist her free hand in the front of his shirt.

It’s not a nice kiss—there’s nothing gentle or soft in it—no, it’s hard and punishing, angry and desperate and wild, his fingers tugging accidentally when they slide into her hair, his teeth dragging over her lower lip almost hard enough to draw blood. But then, as abruptly as it started, Flynn wrenches himself away and stalks off to the Lifeboat, leaving Lucy trying to catch her breath in his wake. 

Flynn’s already inside when she reaches the ship, but Rufus is still outside and looking at her like she’s grown a second head. Wyatt isn’t looking at her at all. 

“So, uh, did that really, I mean, are you, how long has—” Rufus stammers out before falling silent, apparently deciding that he doesn’t actually want the answers to any of those half-asked questions.

“If the two of you are ready, we should go,” Wyatt says, and Lucy can’t agree fast enough. She’s started to move beyond confusion into anger, and she is more than ready to get back to the future so she and Flynn can have words.

Except, of course it isn’t that easy, because as soon as they land, Flynn is off like a shot and Wyatt calls her name.

“It’s my life, Wyatt,” Lucy says before he can launch into whatever lecture he might have had planned for her (not that he necessarily had one, but sue her for making assumptions, she’s a little on edge). “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

Wyatt looks at her for a long moment, looking for all the world like there’s something on the tip of his tongue that he’s burning to share, but finally he just shakes his head and sighs. “I hope you know what it is you are doing. That’s all.”

“I do.” _Lie_ , her mind whispers as soon as the reply leaves her. “Or, at least, I’m figuring it out,” she corrects. _That’s better_. 

Wyatt’s jaw clenches as if that’s the least comforting thing answer she possibly could have given, but he lets it go, nodding before turning back to help Rufus with the charging mechanism for the Lifeboat. Lucy goes after Flynn.

She finds him, somewhat unsurprisingly, in the shed. 

“You know, a thank you for saving your life wouldn’t be completely unappreciated.” She crosses her arms over her chest, and leans against the doorframe. Over by the workbench, Flynn stiffens. 

_Good_ , Lucy thinks viciously. _Come on then. React_.

“A thank you?” Flynn repeats, slowly turning to face her. His voice is hard, eyes flinty. “I should thank you? For what? That was by far the most senseless thing you’ve ever done, and that’s incredible considering what a long list that is.”

That burns. _How dare he_. “I saved your life,” Lucy scoffs. 

“You could have been killed,” he shoots back. “They could have killed you and then me and then where would we be? You didn’t even need to be there, Lucy. You could have gotten out on your own, gotten back to the Lifeboat, but instead you almost got yourself killed.”

“I wasn’t going to just leave you there,” she points out. “We’re a team. Teams don’t just leave people behind.”

“Yes, they do!” Flynn snaps. “If it’s for the greater good, someone is always expendable. And in this case, that someone is _not_ you.”

_Expendable_. The word fills Lucy with ice and her stomach drops. “You—” It takes her a moment to respond because even engaging with the utter stupidity of that statement is more than she can handle. “You think you’re expendable?”

“You only need one soldier, Lucy,” he replies. 

No. _No_. Her reaction is immediate and visceral—horror, shock, nausea—Christ, it’s as though he’s slapped her. 

“I don’t—” Lucy coughs, takes a breath. Her mind is swirling. “You’re not expendable. Not to me. And, by the way, I don’t care if you think it was stupid, I am not going to apologize for saving your life because it was my choice to make. Besides, it’s not like they were actually going to shoot me.”

“You don’t know that,” Flynn hisses, taking a step towards her. “You didn’t know that. You had no way of knowing—”

“It was an educated guess, and it worked—”

“—unnecessary risk—”

“—worth it to save your life—”

“—you cannot possibly—”

“I would do it again—”

“Goddammit, Lucy, I _cannot watch you die!_ ” Flynn shouts, and it startles Lucy into silence. They’re so close they’re almost touching, having crossed further into the room while they were arguing. Flynn looks stricken by his admission, a clear sign that it’s the last thing he meant to say. 

Lucy swallows hard, gaze trained on his face. “What?” 

Before her eyes, the fight drains out of him as if through a sieve, all of his masks falling away as he runs a hand over his face. There’s still anger, but beyond that there’s fear, pain, loss, exhaustion—his gaze meets hers steadily and she reaches out without even thinking. 

_Christ, how had she not figured it out before?_

Flynn flinches when her hand touches his cheek, too gentle to bear, and Lucy’s heart breaks a little at the motion. His eyes close as he carefully leans into the touch, his own hand coming up to rest on her hip. 

“I lost my wife to these monsters,” he murmurs. “My daughter. And the things I did...I cannot lose another person I l—care for. I wouldn’t survive it.”

_Oh_. It takes a minute for Lucy to remember how to breathe. “I can’t lose you either, you know,” she replies, barely more than a whisper. The moment feels fragile, as if speaking too loudly would break it into pieces. “I can’t watch you die either. So don’t ask me to let you. Because you are _not_ expendable to me, Garcia.”

_I’m falling in love with you. Or maybe I already am. God help me, either way_. 

Going up on her toes, Lucy kisses him. It’s soft, almost an apology, and Flynn makes a sound as if she’s wounded him somehow, but returns the kiss anyway. 

Soft turns to needy all too quickly, and Lucy pushes Flynn backwards until his knees hit the workbench, fingers catching at his shirt, his hair, anywhere she can reach. When she shoves him down on the bench, her knees bracketing his hips, for once he doesn’t stop her. Instead, he kisses her with a desperation that matches her own as his hands leave burning trails through her clothes. 

It’s the first time he’s given her so much freedom to touch him and she takes full advantage. When she breaks the kiss, it’s only to explore the line of his jaw, to taste the skin over his pulse as her fingers work on the buttons of his shirt. Biting him gets a reaction—he swears and returns the favor, unbuttoning the top buttons of her blouse to leave a mark just above her breast. 

(The sting of his teeth makes her gasp, pain twisting into pleasure in an instant. Heat pools low in her abdomen and God, it's exactly what she needs—rough and hard and thrilling, something to remind her that he’s alive, that both of them are. She thinks maybe that’s what he needed when he’d kissed her before, just a reminder that she was real, that she was alive, that he hadn’t lost her) 

Lucy drags her nails down Flynn's chest, relishing the way he shudders and drops his head to her shoulder. When she finds his belt, she doesn't waste time, entirely single-minded in her goal. 

He does stop her then, catching her hand before it can slip beneath his waistband. She rolls her hips instead, biting her lip to stifle a gasp at the delicious friction that elicits. Flynn swallows hard the second time she does it—her eyes track the movement of his throat, tempting her to do so with her tongue—and his free hand falls to her hip to hold her still as his eyes close. 

Lucy searches his face, waiting, wanting. She’s not above begging, but she doesn’t think she needs to here—this isn’t a tease or a power-play, it’s just...Flynn. There’s something utterly terrifying about vulnerability, about trust, about intimacy. She has a tendency to blaze forward, fake-it-til-you-make-it style, all feigned confidence and plastered-on smiles. Flynn though...Flynn is walls and layers and scars in a way that doesn’t feel new enough to solely be the product of Rittenhouse. 

(Strength, power, violence—those aren’t things that happen out of nowhere. He’s deadly because he was trained to be, just like Wyatt. And she would be willing to bet if the two men could get past their animosity, they would find they have more in common than they might think)

She gives him the moment, the stillness, then leans in and kisses him again. It’s barely a kiss, more of a question, and he swears quietly once before releasing her hand. His slips beneath her skirt, bypassing her stockings and garter clasps in favor of getting right to the point. They've done this before, enough that it’s familiar at least—his fingers playing over her, stroking and winding up until she breaks. 

 

Flynn's lips find her ear, her throat, the underside of her jaw. Between her legs, he parts her folds with his thumb, stroking up to seek out her clit. She whines high in the back of her throat when he finds it, rocking her hips into the touch. It feels good, but it's too gentle, too careful. It's not what she needs right now. 

Lucy drops her hands again—the last button on his pants is easily dealt with, and then her fingers dip beneath his waistband. His breath catches when she wraps a hand around him, squeezing gently—the satisfaction she feels is perhaps unwarranted, but he’s hot and hard in her hand, he’s given her the power to make him fall apart for once, and she _wants_. 

Flynn presses his forehead to hers as Lucy draws him out of his pants, kissing her once, twice, swallowing her gasp when she sinks down onto him, takes him inside. The stretch burns, but he’s still beneath her until she adjusts, and once he does move there’s little she can do but press her face to his neck and let the connection overwhelm her.

She comes far sooner than she wants to, his thumb on her clit pushing her over the edge. He doesn’t last that much longer, but he kisses her when he does. What’s more, he doesn’t let go. His fingers trace a circuit up and down her spine, his lips press lazy kisses to her neck (he’s left at least one mark, that much she can tell), and he doesn’t pull away when she cards her fingers through his hair.

“Garcia, I—” _I might be in love with you_. Flynn kisses her before she can finish and it’s _I know_ and _not yet_ and _me too_. 

The next time she asks him to stay, he does. They don’t talk about it. They don’t have to.

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh, I really don't write smut. And yet, these two seem to demand it. 
> 
> Title from Dark Nights by Dorothy.


End file.
